


Love, Decidedly

by DuchessElvire



Category: Dragon Jousters - Mercedes Lackey, Fandompalooza!, Game of Thrones (TV), Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss, Merlin (TV), Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bast is Kvothe's Son, Gendry and Will are twins, Kid Fic, Love Actually AU, Multi, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuchessElvire/pseuds/DuchessElvire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin hates his boss who gave him the hardest assignment he could imagine.<br/>Magnus has a thing for the guy who runs the counter at the chocolate shop.<br/>The guy who always comes in looking for jazz on vinyl is starting to get on Jojen’s nerves<br/>Arya may or may not find her dog walker attractive.<br/>Jace forgot his own wedding anniversary and may be in the doghouse for the rest of his life.<br/>Freya and Percy are getting married in less than a month.<br/>Stiles left his cheating boyfriend a month ago and he totally isn’t into his neighbor with the perpetual angry face.<br/>Kvothe’s girlfriend up and left four years ago and he’s been raising their son ever since.</p>
<p>Eight couples. Six weeks. One holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merlin

**Author's Note:**

> I should totally make a series of AUs no one asked for because this is another one. This is going to be on the back-burner mostly until I finish my other story, but writing more than one thing at once is helpful to me. You don't necessarily need to have read or watch all of the series involved in this, but it will absolutely help.
> 
> The Mature rating is mostly for explicit language and (currently) only references to sex. I'm playing it safe.

_If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love, decidedly, is all around—_

Merlin crumpled the paper, hurling across the room only to miss the wastebasket and buried his head in his folded arms. He, of all the writers at Camelot, had been asked to write, of all the articles that were going to exist, a holiday fluff piece! Merlin Emrys did not write fluff pieces. He wrote scintillating commentary and scathing reviews, not this bullshit. This was Stark’s territory, not his, but apparently Sansa was too busy writing an emotional analysis of the treatment of war veterans.

“Bad day at the office?” Magnus asked, carrying two mugs of tea, one of which he offered to his self-decided world-weary roommate.

“You could say that,” Merlin replied, accepting the mug from Magnus’ beringed and glitter laden hand. “I’m supposed to submit a fluff piece for the Christmas issue.”

“Let me guess, it was Pendragon’s idea?”

“Who else would pull this?”

Magnus flopped onto their couch, a ridiculously pumpkin orange, microfiber beast that Magnus had claimed was simply divine. Merlin had only agreed because it was the cheapest couch they could find when they moved in. “If you need sickening romance just phone up Freya and ask about her holiday plans with Percy. That should be more than enough ammunition.”

“Do _you_ want to sit through that phone call?” he shot back, taking a sip of his tea. “Because I’ll pass. How are things with the blue eyed beauty?”

“You’re playing dirty, Emrys, but no, I have not yet made contact. It’s utterly shameful.”

Merlin cracked a tight smile, “I know, a college student bringing the great Magnus Bane to his knees without even knowing it. Positively disgraceful.”

They lapsed into an easy silence as Magnus turned on the television to Project Runway reruns and he attempted to swallow his pride and think better of the numerous creative, holiday themed ways he could imagine to kill Arthur Pendragon. His tormentor, a self-styled liege lord, and an all round pain in the ass. However, as Magnus would often point out, that pain in the ass paid the bills. Bane. The Bane of my existence, Merlin called him, lovingly insulting as friends are. If his roommate was feeling a particular urge of affectionate ire then he would say that Merlin would be a virgin well into middle age because he was too high strung for a good fuck. To this Merlin would say at least he had standards and so on until they dissolved into a pillow fight using those peacock feather pattern throws that Magnus had insisted on which wouldn’t have been so bad if the sofa hadn’t been _orange_.

If the Merlin that had met Magnus had seen them living together so amicably he’d likely die of shock. Understandably so, they hadn’t begun on the best of terms when they were jammed together in a dorm room Freshman year. Their personalities clashed, their schedules conflicted and Merlin inadvertently may have caused Magnus’ girlfriend, Camille to break up with him. Eventually, it had boiled down to the pair of them getting slightly drunk and sharing life stories for them to see each other as human. And Freya. Sweet, lovable, helpful, infuriating Freya who had saved their friendship more times than Merlin could count. He liked to think setting her up with Percy, who luckily had turned out to be the love of her life (her words not his), was his way of repaying her for everything she went through with them.

Now, the graduates were renting an apartment in Brooklyn trying to make ends meet between Merlin’s degree in journalism and Magnus’ in fashion merchandising and design, and Freya was engaged to her huge Prince Charming who she was set to marry on the Winter Solstice. Magnus hadn’t dated anyone since Camille Belcourt, preferring hook ups instead of relationships. This is, until he came face to face with the blue eyed confiseur at Tread Lightly, the home of some of the finest chocolates in New York. Tread Lightly operated in conjunction with Turnabout is Fair Play, a used bookstore, and the Morning Star, a bistro lately improved by coming under new management. Merlin had tried relationships, but none of them lasted long. He’d gone out with Gwaine Lotson, a friend of Magnus’, but they just ended up getting on at a platonic level. Then there was Podrick Payne. Admittedly the best sex of his life, but not exactly something to build lifelong romance on. Last he heard, Pod was secretary to Brienne Tarth, one of the litigators of the Lannister & Son law firm.

“Merl, be a dove and get the door would you?” Magnus called from the couch, breaking his reverie.

“Says the one who isn’t working,” he muttered, navigating the veritable maze of odd furniture and fabric piles and half finished projects. University days Merlin would never have put up with this mess. He jerked the door open without checking who it was to see their newest neighbor.

Fine, he’d been living across the hall since early October, it was now mid-November, but Merlin still didn’t know his name and that made him new. The dark haired boy shuffled slightly before holding up the UPS box.

“This was in my mailbox, but I think it’s yours. It’s addressed to M. Bane, anyway, and that’s one of the names on your box,” he said, speaking almost too quick for him to understand.

“Oh, yes, Magnus was wondering when this’d show up,” Merlin replied, accepting the package. “We haven’t been properly introduced, I’m Merlin Emrys.”

“Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” They shook hands, and Stiles left, darting down the hall toward the stairs, not even waiting for the elevator which promptly opened, revealing the third and quietest resident of their floor: Derek. Merlin only knew Derek because he’d been the one to scare their landlord into fixing the water pressure in their shower. And also because he occasionally banged on the wall when Magnus played his music to loud while he was “in the zone”. He was basically an old man in the body of a twenty-something with a perpetual scowl that looked like he _never_ missed arm day at the gym.

Magnus had shown some interest in him when he first moved in, replacing Nancy, or Old Nan, and her strange stories and amazing snickerdoodles. Soon enough, the green eyed diva had pronounced Derek to be a fine piece of ass who wouldn’t know how to relax if you knocked him out with chloroform. Which Merlin had not allowed him to try.

Merlin dropped the box onto the couch. “New neighbor got our mail.”

“Did you get a name? Letter opener, now.”

“Stiles. Your letter opener is on the end table beside your thick—”

“Careful how you end that sentence, darling. What the hell is a Stiles?”

“Skull, you gutter rat, and hell if I know. Dear lord in heaven what is that?”

“Merlin, I am going to make mesh acceptable to the general public, just you watch.”

“Jackets, fine. Vests, fine. Shirts, fine. Dance shorts, are you out of your mind?”

“I have vision!

“You have an ego the size of Staten Island.”

“And something else to match!”

“Not really, no.”


	2. Kvothe

Kvothe pulled up to the school with a sigh. Bast did not get into fights. Second graders did not get into fights. At private schools. In November. He threw the door shut, straightening his tie, glad that work had required a suit today so he had cause to look vaguely respectable. Kvothe Arlidenson was not what many would call respectable. By day he was a free agent, a finder of information, a risk taker for the highest bidder. By night he played clubs, even producing the odd jazz record on the side. That money paid for Bast to attend this school and if anyone had anything to say about it, they’d answer to Kvothe the Bloodless, the man who had ruled the bare knuckled fighting scene up and down the Eastern Seaboard. That had mostly been to pay for college and Denna’s medical bills.

He pushed into the office waiting room to find Bast sitting on one of the chairs, uniform shirt dirty and torn, quietly murmuring, “Maple, maypole, catch and carry, ash and ember, elderberry.”

“Bast, hey,” Kvothe said quietly, kneeling beside him. “What happened?”

“I didn’t mean to get in a fight, dad,” he whispered, dark hair sticking out at odd angles, “I promise. Ambrose was making fun of Auri, and I was just trying to make him stop, then he pushed her. I was trying to be brave, like Ari and his dragon in the story Mr. M told us, and protect her, but I got all of us in trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” his father insisted, pulling him close, “you started with good intentions, even if it didn’t turn out right. Trying to do the right thing is better than doing nothing at all.”

Bast nodded into his shoulder. The door to the principle’s office swung open, revealing Mr. Elodin, the caring yet undoubtedly eccentric headmaster. Behind him was a sour faced boy, and presumably his father, and a little blonde girl. They filed out into the waiting room, followed by a man of average build with black hair and warm eyes. The wondrous Mr. M, Kvothe supposed. He’d had the great misfortune of missing open house and hadn’t actually met his son’s teacher.

“Now, after careful consideration,” Elodin began, Kvothe noting that one of his socks was missing and the other was a yellow and purple argyle pattern, “I’ve come to the conclusion that Auri is not to blame in the least. Next, that Bast was only protecting her honor. This of course, leaves Ambrose as the culprit.” The sour boy opened his mouth to protest, only to be cut off. “And seeing as this is not the first time this has occurred, Mr. Jakis here will be joining a little community service venture I’ve set up with the intent of helping other problem children in the area.”

The boy’s father nodded. “I think that’s a perfectly acceptable solution, we’ll discuss the details later. Come along, Ambrose.” He grabbed his son’s hand and made his way out of the building, just as Elodin slammed his door shut.

The teacher looked to the blonde girl. “Auri, your aunt is coming to get you, isn’t she?” The girl nodded, her thin hair creating something akin to a halo around her head. Then the man turned to Kvothe, extending a hand to shake. “Kiron Mobarak, most of my students call me Mr. M.”

“Kvothe Arlidenson,” he replied, accepting.

“Is that how you say it? I did wonder,” Kiron said with a slightly sheepish smile.

“It’s alright, most people just go with Mr. Arlidenson because it’s phonetic,” he explained. “Are Bast’s things still in your classroom?”

“Yes, I’ll show you.”

“That’s alright, Mr. M,” Bast interjected, “I can go get them myself.” Before either of them could object, he was off like a shot down the hall.

“The willfulness of seven-year-olds,” Kiron said with a chuckle.

Kvothe nodded. “He said he got the idea to defend Auri from a story you told.”

“Oh, that.” The teacher laughed once nervously. “It was just something I remember making up as a child. Ari was my foster father, and Kashet was the name of his cat. What child doesn’t make believe about warriors and dragons?”

Bast reappeared with his uniform jacket and backpack, preventing Kvothe from answering. “Don’t worry, Dad, Mr. M is good at telling stories,” he said, having pulled him down to whisper, “but no one tells stories like you.” He smiled, taking his son’s hand, reminding himself that he should not allow comments from Bast to inflate his ego.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Mobarak,” Kvothe said, walking toward the door.

“And you.” Kvothe smiled in spite of himself as the door fell shut behind them.

When Bast was safely buckled into the back seat and they were pulling out of the parking lot, the little boy asked, “Dad, do you like Mr. M?”

“He seemed nice,” he answered, hoping that Bast didn’t pick up on anything else.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant do you like him the way you liked mom?” He was his father’s son: perceptive to a fault.

Trying to change the subject he said, “Bast, I didn’t like your mom, I idealized your mom. Do you know what the difference is?”

“No.”

“It means I imagined she was something that she wasn’t. Does that make sense?”

“I guess, but you didn’t answer my question.”

Kvothe sighed gustily. “Does it make a difference?”

“Yes because I like Mr. M he’s super nice and helpful, but he seems really lonely,” Bast explained, “so I thought maybe you could be his friend because you’re lonely, too.”

“I’m not lonely, Bast,” he said with a wide smile, “I have you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Dad,” he insisted. “You only see your friends when you’re not working or with me and that’s hardly at all. And you haven’t seen anyone since Mom. Mr. M’s wife left him last year, I heard the librarians talking about it.”

“Bast, forgive me if I’m wrong, but are you trying to set me up?”

He glanced into the mirror at the stop light seeing his son’s wide smile lighting up the back seat. “Yup!”

Kvothe was sighing far too much for one day. “I know you mean well, but that’s just not possible.”

“Why? Besides, you did say it was better to try to do the right thing than do nothing at all.”

“I’ll explain when you’re older.” The words hurt to say, the words he promised himself he wouldn’t use. Except, this was something he really didn’t want to explain. Bast was seven and this would entail an explanation of workplace politics, the boundaries of the teacher-parent relationship, money issues, and also that not everyone was bisexual.

“Sure,” Bast said, mustering the sarcasm Kvothe should never had let him pick up. “You know that means you’re never going to tell me, right.”

_Denna, why did you leave me with this child from hell?_ Kvothe thought halfheartedly. They remained silent for the rest of the drive, ending at home which was a brownstone that had been broken into apartments in the eighties. The first floor was occupied by Will and Gendry, the Waters twins, the second floor by the Lightwood siblings, Alec, Isabelle, and Max, and the Arlidensons rented the third floor.

“What are you talking about, of course flamboyant dude has a crush on you,” Isabelle insisted to her cell phone, waving at them as they passed her going toward the stairs. “Did you hear about Jace and Clary? He is so dead...”

Once inside, Kvothe tossed his keys into the dish next to the door from his days making stained glass. To be perfectly honest, there wasn’t a lot that he hadn’t done. He’d traveled the world, tried countless jobs, been in multiple relationships, mostly bad ones, and become a single parent all before the age of thirty. Bast grabbed the book he was reading that morning and curled up in the corner of the couch arm and Kvothe sat down at the piano, cracking his knuckles. Jojen said there were people asking for his music, so he might as well as not try a little composing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am well aware that the owning of a car in New York is highly impractical. Also, for the sake of this let's just assume that Maryse and Robert Lightwood ceased to exist and Alec is Max's legal guardian. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks!


	3. Jojen

Jojen didn't even need to look up to know who was there. "I don't know why you bother," he said, his voice muddled by the fact that his cheek rested on his hand. "Coming in every week I mean. Just leave your phone number and I'll call you when something new comes in."

"And miss this conversation every Thursday? Never." The young man smirked, infuriatingly attractive. At least, Jojen was sure someone would think him so. He did not. Not in the slightest.

"Have it your way. The Kingkiller hasn't put out anything new yet."

"I'm not here about the Kingkiller." Jojen's head jerked up. He smiled, this time genuinely, "I wanted to ask you to lunch. Or just coffee if you haven't got time. Or perhaps dinner if you prefer."

Blonde eyelashes fluttered over green eyes momentarily in confusion. "Oh, well, uh, lunch sounds lovely. I'll be closing the shop in just a few minutes, unless you meant some other day."

"No, today is perfect. Do you know the Morning Star?"

"The place where they found the dead body of the owner's son preserved in the walk in freezer?" he inquired skeptically, wondering if he should regret saying yes.

"Don't worry, it went to the son of an old friend of his who replaced the freezer." Jojen laughed, standing up from behind the cash register. He grabbed his leather jacket from the hook and open the shop door, motioning for the other to go before him.

"You know, we really ought to be properly introduced. I'm Jojen Reed."

"Bran Stark. A little awkward I suppose if we went all the way through this without asking for each other's names."

"Indeed."

The walk wasn’t terribly long, just a few blocks. Jojen was exceptionally aware of Bran beside him, the confidence in the way he walked. Doubtless he knew he was generally attractive. Auburn hair, sky blue eyes, and standing a full head taller than himself. Not that this was particularly surprising, most members of Jojen’s family tended to fall below average height.

The sign for the Morning Star featured a new emblem, likely also a product of the new management. Now instead of the image of the weapon that shared the name, there was a coffee cup and saucer with a steam trail made of stars that grew smaller as they got farther from the cup. Bran mentioned that this was designed by the daughter of the owner of the bookstore that stood one space over, Clarissa Fairchild, who he had apparently attended some part of school with.

They were seated in the back of the bistro, the usually quiet and collected atmosphere of which had been broken by an evident tension. A young woman appeared at their table some time later, her name tag proclaiming her to be Aline.

“Sorry for the wait,” she apologized immediately, pushing her dark hair back behind an ear. “The owner had a falling out with his fiance and didn’t come in so we’re worn a bit thin today and moving slower.”

Bran looked at Jojen. “Will that be a problem? Do you have to get back?”

“I own the shop,” he shrugged, “I make my own hours.”

Aline took their orders and headed back to the counter where Jojen could hear her speaking to another waitress, “Helen, I feel like taking bets on how soon our employer will be murdered by his significant other could be cited as insubordination.”

Bran caught his gaze, making eye contact for a split second before they both dissolved into fits of quiet laughter. After he had settled to comprehensible speech, he said, “What a first date, right, waiting for the owner of the place to be assassinated.”

“This is a date?”

“Well, yeah, I hope so,” the auburn haired man replied, looking a little sheepish. “Half the reason I always come to your shop is because you’re attractive.”

A bright, crimson blush suffused over Jojen’s face, embarrassment halting his speech. Aline reappeared with their drinks, buying him time. After she left, he asked, “So you’re not just some weird guy with a fetish for red headed jazz prodigies?”

“I don’t listen to the Kingkiller because I’m attracted to him,” he sincerely informed him. “In fact, I’d go so far as to assert an old adage: Gentlemen prefer blondes.”

“You’re not a gentleman,” Jojen stated easily. “So where does that leave you.”

“I don’t know, but I do like blondes. And jazz.”

“Why?”

“ Why blondes or why jazz?”

“Why do you like jazz?”

Bran paused, taking a ponderous sip of his tea, that is if one could sip a drink ponderously. “It reminds me of my dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was years ago. The music is just like having a piece of him, you know?” Jojen hummed in agreement, unsure of what to say. “Anyway,” Bran powered through, “enough about things that make us sad. Tell me: Who, exactly, is the adorable young man who goes by the name Jojen Reed?”

“That sounds like something an ax-murdering stalker would ask,” Jojen pointed out. “I’ll only tell you if I get the inside story of the handsome Bran Stark in return.”

He grinned mischievously over his teacup. “Terms accepted. But you still go first.”

“Okay, well, my father was involved in military intelligence up until about five years ago, and my mother is a personal shopper, which I get sounds kind of shallow, but it’s actually a fairly interesting business. My older sister, Meera, is currently at Columbia studying to become a pediatrician, and I decided to open a music store in an era where physical copies are becoming obsolete.” He sighed deeply, drinking his coffee, “But I’m thinking about altering my merchandise a bit, maybe move toward selling instruments and equipment.”

“I could see that working out,” Bran agreed, “but please don’t get rid of the vinyl.”

Jojen laughed. “No, never, I can promise you that. There’s not much else, I guess. My favorite novel is Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, I grew up in Albany and my parents still live there, I like avant punk and classical music, I can play the guitar… not really that interesting.”

Bran sighed heavily, “It’s only uninteresting to you because you’ve been living it the entirety of the time you’ve spent on this earth.”

“Sure. Now, I believe it’s your turn,” he prompted, quick to change the subject.

“I’m the fourth of five children. I have a younger brother, an older brother, and two older sisters. My father, as I said, died ten years ago of a heart attack. He left the family business, Stark Outdoor Inc, to by brother Robb.” Jojen nodded, recalling the billboards and commercials for the brand, sporting the age old slogan ‘Winter is Coming’. “Anyway, my mom helps Robb with the publicity end of things. I’m currently working as a medical researcher. I haven’t had the job all that long, I just graduated from university last spring. And, while Mary Shelley is great and all, the best science fiction series has to be The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

“Hitchhiker’s Guide is good,” Jojen conceded, “but Douglas Adams wouldn’t have been able to write it if Shelley hadn’t been instrumental in pioneering the genre.” Their food had appeared some time during Bran’s account, which the blonde reminded him he hadn’t actually finished.

“I can’t think of anything. I’m really into rock climbing. I grew up in Manhattan. You know what kind of music I like,” he pointed out before biting into his sandwich.

“It’s alright, it’s difficult to think of everything about yourself at once to explain to people.”

“Are you throwing shade?” Jojen smirked. “Oh my God, you are.”

“Regretting your decision?”

Bran shook his head, smiling broadly. “No, and I don’t think I will.”

Jojen ducked his head, blushing again and grinning madly. In the far recesses of his mind, he silently thanked Kvothe Arlidenson for being both an irritating son of a bitch and a fantastic jazz musician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Bran and Jojen have made an appearance. In true _Love, Actually_ style all characters will be somehow connected, some more tenuously than others. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all of the kudos, comments, bookmarks, and subscriptions!


	4. Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief allusions to drug use by a supporting character.

“Gendry! For fuck’s sake, get up,” Will yelled, banging loudly on his bedroom door.

Gendry groaned, lifting his head just enough to look at his phone screen, wincing as it lit up, too bright for… 6:30 am? “Will, I’m going to kill you!” 

“You have to be at that Manhattan apartment by seven! I knew you’d forget.” Gendry stumbled from his bed and directly into the door jamb. Flustered from sleep, he staggered back again, nailing himself in the back with the sharp corner of his dresser. 

"I fucking hate rich bitches," he muttered to himself when he finally got into the shower. "Always scheduling at the crack of dawn when they could be walking their dogs by themselves." Nymeria was a tough enough act at noon when he’d actually had coffee, she’d be awful at seven in the morning.

Will slightly redeemed himself by leaving coffee and a bagel for him on the kitchenette counter, but only slightly. Gendry snatched his keys and wallet off the table beside the door and stepped out, nearly tripping over the young woman in the hallway. 

She looked up at him, a dazed look in her eyes. “You’re not Kvothe,” she said with a abbreviated giggle. 

_ Oh shit, she’s high _ , Gendry’s mind supplied,  _ who let her in here _ ?

“Which door is his?” she asked, using the wall to pull herself to her feet. In the hand that wasn’t keeping her from falling over she held a pair of high heels and a tiny clutch purse. Her feet were bare and dirty, like her silver minidress.

_ Kvothe has a kid, I can’t tell this girl which one is his _ . “Look, Lady, I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but you’d better come back when you off whatever it is you’re on,” he said gruffly, pushing past her toward the stairs. 

“Then I’ll just stay here until someone else helps me.” The sickening pout in her voice was palpable. 

“You obviously need a lot of it,” he muttered, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

 

To: Twin

There’s a chick in the hall outside the apartment who’s high. She’s asking about Kvothe, make sure he knows.

 

From: Twin

Got it.

 

Alec Lightwood met him on the stairs. “You meet the girl yet? I hope it’s okay that I lied about your apartment being his. She just kind of latched on to me last night when I got here and I was really tired from prep for today, I got home at like two am, and I just thought it would be better to lie to her—”

“Alec, it’s fine,” he reassured him as they headed out to the street. “Better ours than if Bast found her. Or Max.” 

Alec shuddered, zipping up his windbreaker. “I slipped a note under Kvothe’s door before I went to sleep and I told Izzy to go check on them this morning. Is there some kind of protocol for this stuff?”

“Not that I know of.”

The subway ride to Manhattan was packed full of morning commuters. Businessmen, baristas, students, cubicle workers, crammed together in a metal cylinder, hurtling forward at 30 miles per hour toward thankless jobs and mediocre lives… obviously a lack of sleep made Gendry needlessly existential. He got off around 45th and made his way to the apartment building that was now etched into his memory. He knew dogs and apartments, not owners. He was walking Nymeria and Lady. Some red head always handed them off to him when he got there, all ready with leashes and chomping at the bit to see the outside world.

He was buzzed up immediately as per usual, waving cheekily at the doorman who glared in return, never moving. Gendry jogged up the stairs and knocked on the door, shoving his hands in his pockets immediately after. A girl with short dark hair flung the door open, hanging onto it as if to support herself.

“Who the hell are you?” she exclaimed , her voice reverberating down the silent hallway.

“The dog walker? I know I usually do this around two, but I was called in for seven am,” he protested, confused.

Her eyes narrowed. “Sansa said she walked the dogs.”

“Is that the red head? Because she’s the only person I talked to.”

“Well, since you’re here and she’s apparently paying you.” The girl turned around and whistled for the dogs, snatching their leashes off a hook. “I’m Arya Stark, by the way,” she added as she clipped them to the collars.

“Gendry. Is your sister even here?” he asked, accepting the dogs once she had them tethered.

“No, she doesn’t seem to have come home last night,” she replied, snapping her left hand in a “ _ oh damn _ ” motion. “I guess I have to catch her secret boyfriend some other time.” She closes the door without preamble leaving a befuddled Gendry to be pulled down the hall by an impatient Nymeria. 

_ I guess today is Fuck With Gendry Day. _

 

He took Nymeria and Lady on their accustomed route, trying to ignore the fact that Arya was ridiculously attractive for someone who probably just jumped out of bed before opening the door. He certainly didn’t look like that if Will’s appearance in the morning was anything to go by. 

“Gendry!” Merlin Emrys’ surprise shocked him from his reverie. “Never seen you out here before.”

“A client changed an appointment time from normal,” he said, pausing for a moment. “Shouldn’t you be at work.”

Merlin shrugged, lifting a Starbucks cup. “Coffee run. Usually Stark brings it in with a bright fucking smile. I almost miss it. Probably because I don’t like to get my coffee myself.”

“Sansa Stark?”

“Yeah. Called in sick. Probably with her boyfriend. Anyway, I’ve got to get back before his majesty, the royal pain in my ass, decides to write me up for taking a break that’s too long.” 

“See you for drinks,” Gendry called to his retreating form. Merlin waved before disappearing into the Camelot Publishing building and Gendry continuing on his way. The universe, it seemed, still allowed him to have friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge gap, life just got away from me. We went directly into rehearsals for Much Ado About Nothing and I didn't have a spare moment between that and school for about three months. Anyway, thank you for checking out the new chapter! Still not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Thank you for all of the kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions!


	5. Clary

“Should I forgive him?” Clary wondered aloud looking through the glass side door of the bookstore into the bistro. From her spot at the register of Turnabout is Fair Play she could see easily into Morning Star by turning around to face the right side wall and into Tread Lightly by looking ahead to the far left wall. Usually the doors were covered by dark green velvet curtains to feed the aesthetic, but Clary’s current relationship issues led to the pulling back of the curtains so she could observe her boyfriend and ensure he was appropriately moping and sulky during the workday.

Simon looked at her, a dark eyebrow arched over a DC comic. “You’re not a doormat, Clary, he should have at least tried after you reminded him.” The advice probably would have gone over better if he hadn’t been wearing a tee shirt that said “Muscle Wizards Cast FIST” and if his hair didn’t look like that of someone who had recently been struck by lightning.

“I guess,” she sighed, still looking wistfully toward where Jace was slumped over the counter. “He looks so sad.” Before Simon could begin one of his famous anti-Jace tirades, someone knocked on the counter. “Oh, Kiron! I’m so sorry, I completely forgot.” Clary dropped under the counter and scavenged for a moment before capturing her prize. “Here we are, Lewis, First Edition hardcover.”

Kiron grinned, a dazzling sight, passing her his debit card. Clary often questioned the sanity of his wife for divorcing him. “Thanks for this, I’ve been reading an old paperback to the kids and I expect that’ll just fall apart soon.”

“ _The Chronicles of Narnia_ must be great for kids that age,” Simon intoned from behind her while she rang up the book.

Clary passed back the card and receipt. “I’m glad we found it for you. See you later, Kiron.”

“So long, you two.” The bell above the door jingled cheerily as he left, but to Clary it almost sounded sorrowful, echoing in the emptiness inside the shop and resonating in the emptiness she swore was inside her heart, growing with every passing moment.

She laid her head down on the desk with a long sigh. “Ugh, why did this happen?”

“Because you’re too nice,” Simon scowled, slapping the comic book down on the counter. “You’ve always been too nice. If you had any sense you’d leave his ass.”

“I don’t want to. I love him!” she insisted, glaring at him.

Simon held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just trying to be the supportive best friend which requires that I trash talk your husband in the case that he screws up. I don’t get to do this very often. Let me enjoy this.”

Another long, slow sigh left her lips and she let her head fall back down, red curls tumbling over her face and blocking her view. Good. She couldn’t look anymore. Jace was depressed. She was depressed. But she couldn’t give up the high ground. No, she had to maintain the separation long enough to make an impression. She lifted her head and surveyed the empty shop with its dark warmth emanating from the dark wood shelves and soft leather chairs. Books were jammed and stacked in or on every available surface and the only light came from the front window, the chandelier in the back and sconces that Luke, her stepfather, had rigged up to the shelves. Once you walked into the stacks it was like you existed out of time, far away in a small literary heaven. It was the shop she always wanted, always wished for as a child.

Clary straightened and squared her shoulders. “I’m taking my fifteen. I need chocolate.”

“Oh no, we’re so swamped,” Simon deadpanned, standing up to fiddle with the window display, currently featuring lady novelists of the gothic period, including portraits of Mary Shelley and the Brontë sisters. A breathy snort of mirth escaped her as she crossed to the side door into Tread Lightly, which was similarly dead at 11 am on a Thursday. Everything about the shop screamed Isabelle, but once you got to the chocolate, it was all Alec. No one in their right mind would let Izzy anywhere close to a chocolaterie. Or any kitchen for that matter. However, her interior design skills were beyond reproach. Everything was chic, sleek, and gorgeous in pale blues, teals, and chrome. Cafe style tables and chairs filled, but didn’t clutter the white marble floor and the back wall was shared by a counter with stools for patrons desiring a milkshake or a cup of coffee and a display case for the chocolates, accompanied by a cash register in the center so clean Clary swore she could see her reflection in it from ten feet away.

She hopped up onto one of the stools at the soda fountain and folded her arms on the disturbingly clean counter. “My dear Alec, any suggestions for break up chocolate?”

The lean figure of Alec Lightwood arose from behind the case to her right, his messy, dark hair falling into his eyes. Clearly, Freya had not yet arrived to help him sort, temper, dispense, and ring up if his slightly pained expression was anything to go by.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you two are fighting, not broken up.”

But then again, Alec always looked slightly pained. It was his thing to look vaguely uncomfortable in all situations, regardless of how pleasant.

“Then give me fighting chocolate. I’m not very good at this.”

“Well, neither am I,” he replied sullenly, sliding open one of the doors.

“Still can’t ask out pretty, fashionable guy?”

He slid a plate of truffles toward her and pulled out a glass and a malt mixing cup. “Every time he comes in I freeze up. I can’t say anything.”

“You do know that’s not all that different from how you usually are, right?” Clary picked up a truffle to examine it, trying to ascertain the filling.

“Do you want the milkshake or not?”

She gasped, dropping the truffle and stretching out her hand demandingly. “No! Give me the shake! I promise, you’re the most talkative person I know and he’d be lucky to have you!” He chuckled, sliding the glass toward her as she popped one of the confections into her mouth. “And half of that was true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the long gap. However, if I hadn't been talking to my friends about fanfiction tonight this would never have gone up so Dan and Dom deserve the biggest thank yous. Hopefully, I won't let this die, but I go off to college in the fall, so...


	6. Arthur

The slap of a stack of paper landing on his desk forced Arthur to glance up from his computer to see Merlin glaring at him from under that unruly, untidy,  ~~devastatingly attractive~~ mop of dark hair. Before Arthur stared for too long, he immediately schooled his features into irritated disinterest. 

“Did you need something, Merlin?” he demanded with practiced gruffness.

“Why are these on my desk? It’s Lance’s job to edit human interest articles.” The anger and disgust was palpable, a surefire misdirect from any feelings Arthur was forced to hide.

“Since you’re doing our holiday fluff-fest I figured you and Lance could trade. He’ll be editing Arts and Entertainment and you’ll be editing Feature articles. Aren’t you up to it?” Arthur returned to typing in order to cement his careless attitude.

“You know I can do it, Pendragon. How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long are we switched, Lance and I?”

“Longer every moment you stay in my office.” With an infuriated huff, Merlin lugged the papers back up and left the room, letting the door slam behind him. 

“You know,” Gwaine drawled from the private door, “if anyone else behaved that way, you’d fire them.”

“Merlin’s the best, you know that.”

“Yeah, has the best ass, too.” Arthur’s fingers paused on the keys. “Yeah, knew you were watching, too.” He returned to his keyboard with a renewed fervor, loud clacking filling the large office, jaw set stubbornly against Gwaine’s antagonizing. 

The tall brunet man crossed to the right side of the room, staring out the corner office window into the busy street below. The office was not to Arthur’s taste in the least. Dark and ostentatious with ridiculous gold and crimson accents in any justifiable space. Behind him, the Pendragon crest graced the wall, large and imposing, almost like the spirit of Uther hanging over his head, waiting for just one screw up.

When Gwaine continued to stand in his precious daylight, Arthur abruptly halted his work. “What are you doing here, all the way up from HR? Surely there haven’t been anymore complaints about management.”

“No, everyone but Merlin seems to love you. That’ll wear off, though, Princess.”

“So why are you here?”

Gwaine turned to look him in the eye, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his artfully scruffy face. “I wanted to see how you were. I know it’s only been a month, but you haven’t even had the door nameplate on the door changed. You haven’t moved out of your old office for god’s sake! It’s like you still hope he’ll come back.”

Arthur leaned back in the grossly large leather desk chair, throne really, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I guess I’m still expecting him to come through the door and order me out of his chair like he did when I was a child. I feel like a child in this office.”

“Maybe because it hasn’t changed since then.” Gwaine picked up one of Uther’s golden dragon statuettes, turning it in his hands. “Even just taking out some of this clutter might help. Uther was never good at letting things go.” Arthur remained silent. The little dragon was returned to its shelf and Gwaine crossed to stand in front of the huge mahogany desk. “Just think about it, eh, Princess?” He nodded absently and Gwaine counted that as a success.

The shutting of the private door shocked Arthur from his reverie. For once, Gwaine might be right. Arthur felt like he was honoring Uther’s legacy by keeping all of his crap, but maybe he just kept it all because he couldn’t bear to admit his father was really gone.

_ And that’s why you can’t get over yourself and ask out Emrys, _ a tiny voice nagged from the depths of his mind. 

Pushing the thought from his mind, Arthur snatched up the phone from his desk and opened the line to his secretary. “Gwen, get someone in to change the nameplate on the door and my desk… And get boxes.” He scanned the room, taking in the decorations, the paintings, the books, the heavy drapes that had no business in a New York City office, not since 1919. “Lots of boxes. And maybe a couple plants, god this place is deary… Thanks, Gwen.”

New editor, new Pendragon, new Arthur. New boyfriend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than I usually like to post, but I feel like y'all deserve chapters as fast as I can finish them. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, or a comment, or bookmarked, you make me continue writing. And so do Alex, Dan, and Dom, my dear lovelies.


	7. Stiles

Stiles held his portfolio tight to his chest as he craned his neck to take in the skyscraper adorned with the company name in gilt cursive letters  _ Pendragon Publishing.  _ Leaving behind forensic analysis was one of the scariest decisions of Stiles’ life, but still less scary than moving from California to New York City in one fell swoop. 

With a deep breath to steel himself, Stiles pushed his way into the building lobby and made his way up to the reception desk. The woman standing behind it was blonde with sweet features, but not in a traditionally attractive way. She hung up her phone and turned to him quickly, almost falling into the desk.

“Sorry about that, bit of a klutz,” she said with a smile. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Um, yes, I’m Stiles Stilinski, I have an appointment with Percival de Troyes,” he said, drumming his fingers against the folder.

“Head of photography and illustrations,” she said, nodding to herself. “He’s on the twelfth floor, office 1206. I hope you get the job, you seem nice.”

Stiles smiled at her. “Thanks, um…” He glanced around for a name plate.

“Elena. Elena Gawant. I used to have a name plate, but there was… an accident.” Her face fell briefly, then she brightened, shaking off whatever thoughts plagued her, “Anyway, the elevators are that way. Good luck!” 

Stiles walked in the direction she’d indicated and slid into the elevator next to a statuesque red head deeply absorbed in something on her phone, grinning madly. Every so often a small giggle would escape her lips, clearly oblivious to Stiles’ presence in the small, gold wallpapered space.  _ She’s either watching videos of cats or texting her boyfriend _ , Stiles decided just when the elevator stopped at the twelfth floor. 

He left, leaving cat video girl to her ride up to the fifteenth floor and started the search for office 1206. Instead of a series of grey cubicles with nervous writers hunched over their respective keyboards, the elevator had dropped him off in a long hallway that had more in common with an upscale, prewar apartment building on Fifth Avenue than a magazine publishing office. 

Near the end of the hall he found the right door proclaiming PERCIVAL DE TROYES PHOTOGRAPHIC EDITOR. Stiles took his second deep breath of the morning and pushed the door open only to find himself in what looked to be another reception area.  _ Secretary’s office _ , the part of his brain not panicking a mile a minute filled in unhelpfully. He glanced over to the desk, finding it empty, swamped in piles of glossy prints, disorderly paper stacks and sticky notes poking out of every spare space. Stiles walked over, peering over the stacks to see if perhaps there was a person buried beneath the chaos which brought back disturbing memories of a scene he’d photographed inside a hoarder’s home. Unfortunately, the woman had tripped over her own piles of collected items and hit her head. Fortunately, the woman was not also a cat owner. Stiles had seen those, too. 

The inner door swung open abruptly, causing Stiles to whirl around, nearly knocking over a pile that would only begin a domino effect with the other stacks of paper. The man who filled the doorway was not what he imagined. What he imagined was an aging photographer with bony fingers and a bit of an artsy Mark Twain aesthetic. This man was… not that. His shoulders were mere millimeters from touching the door frame on either and the seams of his button down looked truly ready to rip open at any moment. He was also so tall that Stiles had to crane his head back to look him in the face.  _ And what a nice face it is, too _ , another supremely unhelpful part of his brain told him. 

“You must be Mr. Stilinski,” the man said, his voice deep, but not booming as his barrel-chested frame would suggest. He offered one massive hand to Stiles, “I’m sorry there’s such a mess, I’ve had to let my secretary go and she wasn’t much for… organization.”

Luckily, Stiles’ brain moved past  _ God he’s handsome _ and into  _ I need this fucking job _ and he was able to properly shake hands with who he presumed was Mr. de Troyes. “Stiles Stilinski. It’s a pleasure.”

He smiled. “Percival de Troyes. Do come in.”

Over the next half hour, Stiles got the impression that Percival was the core of the gentle giant archetype. He didn’t ask any of the blindsidingly strange interview questions employers were prone to, like what animal you imagine yourself to be or what would you do in the event of a zombie apocalypse? And for the record, Stiles definitely had an answer to that and it involved gathering his closest family and friends and holing up in a Costco “Shaun of the Dead” style. 

Silence fell as Percival perused his portfolio, examining each picture with the same meticulous eye that Stiles had used when he specifically chose the photos. When he had finally looked his fill at the photos and passed the folder back to Stiles, he said, “You have a very unusual eye, Mr. Stilinski. Your pictures are broad, but you always chose the least likely thing in them as your subject. Why is that?”

“I was a forensic analyst. That meant I spent a lot of time staring at photos and taking photos looking for the bits of evidence we needed to see, the pieces that would make everything else fit together. I like photos with unlikely subjects because I think the thing you don’t look at can be the most important. Then once you see it, you can’t unsee it, like those images that have different pictures in their negative and positive space.”

He nodded, steepling his fingers in front of him, brow furrowed as he thought for a few long, excruciating moments. Finally, Percival drew in a breath to speak. “I know you came in for our open photographer position, but you’d really be wasted there. Your photos are art, not just news graphics. However, I am prepared to make you an offer.” Stiles felt himself holding his breath. “I’m in need of a new secretary, as you know, and I need someone with a creative perspective who isn’t completely unreliable. With your recommendations and work combined I can tell you’d fit the position quite well, but it’s up to you.”

Speechless. Stiles didn’t get speechless. Ever. He always had something to say whether is was about werewolf lore or body decomposition. 

“Also, it pays better,” de Troyes added with a slightly sheepish smile. 

Stiles huffed out a laugh. “I’d be glad to take the job. When do I start?”

“Tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

“Sure,” Stiles agreed, standing up, offering his hand this time. 

“Well, Stiles, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Stiles definitely laughed at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here! Surprisingly.   
> Percival's last name is the surname of the man who first wrote his story down, Chreitien de Troyes, which was an epic called the Conte du Graal and makes Percival the first hero to ever seek the holy grail! The OG knight of the round table, if you will. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!  
> Much love,  
> The Duchess


	8. Alec

Rushed footsteps sounded behind Alec, light and quick until a small person collided with his back, pushing the air out of his lungs and him into the counter. Tiny hands immediately gripped his shoulders and pulled him back upright with surprising strength.

“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry,” Freya insisted, brushing at his shirt as he turned to face her. Her unruly dark hair was just barely being held up in its messy bun and she was tying her apron on backwards. At least, trying to tie her apron which Alec immediately extricated from her grasp and indicated that she should turn around. “Thank you so much.”

“Have you considered using an alarm clock, Freya?” he asked with an amused expression.

“I do! I just forgot to set it…” she replied sheepishly as she returned to face him. “I was up late doing wedding stuff.”

“You are so lucky that I like you and accept that as a reason,” he told her, pushing her toward the sink to wash her hands. Freya just laughed in response, shaking her head. “By the way, how’s Percival?”

“Oh, he’s just great!” she exclaimed, beaming uncontrollably and confirming to Alec exactly why she forgot to set her alarm. And she continued to chatter about her fiance and their upcoming wedding as the two laid out the day’s array of chocolates in the display cases. 

Freya’s voice had faded to a comforting buzz, adding a certain hominess to the atmosphere of the shop. Her presence made the sleek chrome and marble seem warm somehow, so unlike the furnishings of his parent’s home. The Lightwood Manor was full of marble and polished brass, but no matter how many fires roared in the impeccably cared for hearths the house was always cold. Wrapped up in this train of thoughts, the sound of the bell over the door shocked him into dropping the box of iridescent cellophane he was supposed to be unpacking for packaging customer orders. 

“Well, I’ve heard my entrances can be jaw dropping,” said a smooth voice, “but box dropping is a new one.” 

Alec’s head jerked up to see a set of sharp green eyes looking down on him in his crouch on the floor.  _ Oh fuck, he’s early. _ Attempting to hide the blush quickly suffusing over his face, he sharply directed Freya to see to the customer before darting into the back room. If he had looked back for even just half a moment, he might have seen the look of disappointment in those green eyes.

Back slammed against the wall and trying to get his features under control, Alec briefly considered dunking his head in the tank of liquid nitrogen just so he’d never look like that much of as ass ever again. It was tempting. Usually, Mr. Hotter-Than-the-Sun didn’t make an appearance until the afternoon and Alec could work himself up to at least being in the same room with him, but Freya rang up his order every time. That may have actually been the first time that they had made eye contact. At all. 

Just as he finally got his breathing under control, Freya’s head burst through the door saying, “he’s gone,” eliciting a short yelp from Alec.

“Warn a guy!” he admonished, hand pressed into his chest as he collapsed against the wall again.

“Sorry. Magnus, that’s his name by the way, is gone,” she told him, pulling away to return to the front with Alec in tow. Just as he was about to go through the swinging door she mentioned off-handedly, “I gave him your phone number.”

The crack as the door struck him in the face could only be described as sickening.

 

“Was it something I said?” 

As Alec slowly returned to consciousness he felt fingers poking and prodding at his face, which was disturbing enough. Then came the pain. As quickly as he could, he pushed the hands away, opening his eyes to see Jace’s face about half a foot from his own. 

“The fuck are you doing?” he mumbled irritably.

“You let yourself get hit in the face with the door. Freya thought you died,” his adopted brother told him, rolling his eyes and gripping his arm to pull Alec up into a sitting position, “which is more than a little dramatic. I think it just broke your nose.”

Gingerly, Alec felt around his nose. “Yeah, that feels broken.” Realization dawned on him as he glanced down at the floor. “Fuck, we have to shut down for the day.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Freya insisted, “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll drive you to the hospital.” 

“Jace—”

“Just let me drive,” Jace sighed. Alec was sure he’d never seen his brother look so weary, so… old. Jace had a strangely angelic face that always seemed ageless, but today he looked far beyond his twenty-three years. It was so unsettling that Alec let himself be led to his car without further protest. Somewhere in the process, Freya shoved a roll of paper towel into his hands to soak up the blood.

They sat in traffic in silence for several minutes before Alec decided to clear up the confusion. “What’s up with you? You’ve never been like this. At least, I’ve never seen you like this.”

Jace sighed again, leaning his head against the steering wheel and letting his golden hair obscure his features. Finally he said, “I fucked up. Big time. Like you-don’t-come-back-from-fucking-up-this-bad fucked up.”

“Did you cheat on her?”

He jerked up immediately. “What the fuck? No!”

“Then you can come back from it. Izzy told me what happened. You’ll work it out.”

“But what if I can’t?” Jace asked desperately. “Then I lose her. I lose her, I lose everything. Everything I’ve become in the past six years is because of her, because she saw good when everyone else had given up.” After a pause he added, “No offense.”

“None taken. But you know she loves you, right?” Alec asked, cocking his head. “Forgetting your anniversary won’t make her stop loving you. Just don’t give up on it.”

A small, sad smile graced his lips. “Thanks, man. You always were the best at the advice thing.”

“I aim to please.” They spent the rest of the drive in a more comfortable quietude. 

At the hospital, they indeed discovered that the door had broken Alec’s nose, but not enough to seriously displace it. With a prescription for painkillers and directions to ice the fracture, Jace conveyed Alec to his apartment at the converted brownstone.

“Thanks, Jace,” Alec said as he stepped out of the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jace waved him on. To anyone else this would have been rude, but living with Jace for almost ten years meant Alec knew he was simply tapped out of sentimentality for the day and with a chuckle, the dark haired brother shut the car door and headed inside. 

“Goddamn,” Will said, coming out of his and his brother’s apartment at the same time. “Get in a fight, Lightwood?”

“Yeah, with a door.” Will snorted, scooting past him through the open door. Alec continued up the stairs to the apartment he shared with Isabelle and Max. Once his parents kicked him out for being gay, Isabelle had followed, insisting she couldn’t live with them a moment longer and, for a time, Jace lived with them, too, until he and Clary had gotten their own place. Max had only recently moved himself to live with them as soon as he reached the age of eighteen.

He tossed his keys on to the table by the door and heaved himself onto the couch. After a brief interlude, Alec realized he ought to check if there were any messages from his brother or sister. Pulling out his phone he saw, of course, three missed calls from Izzy, and a voicemail, a text from Max, and a text from an unknown number. He quickly sent a hopefully calming text to his siblings and then opened the unknown number. 

> Hey, it’s Magnus, Freya gave me your number. She said you got hurt today so I wanted to see if you were alright xoxo

_ Oh shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I really did not expect to get writing done while I was at college, but lo and behold a chapter! The quality, in my opinion, is a little iffy, but it's 1 am on a Friday and I wanted y'all to have something. Dedicated to my sneky sneks, with me through thick and thin. Any form of feedback is appreciated. If you hate it, tell me what you hate!  
> Much love,   
> The Duchess


	9. Magnus

“God fucking damnit.” If Magnus wasn’t in the middle of a full hallway in the place where he was employed, in full sight of nearly everyone he worked with, he most definitely would have banged his head against a wall. 

“Everything peachy in Magnus-land?” Woosley Scott landed a hand on his shoulder. Magnus breathed deeply, the fabric buyer’s pine scent overwhelming his own Versace cologne. 

“I’m a fucking mess, if you must know.” Magnus wrapped an arm around him and began walking them down the hall toward the conference room. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still drooling from afar over that boy from the candy store,” he drawled, straightening his paisley silk vest. 

“Chocolaterie, and no. It’s so much worse,” Magnus sighed dramatically as they reached the door, flinging it open before them. “I got his phone number today.”

Woosley perked up immediately. “Oh?”

“And I’ve made an absolute fool of myself.”

“Oh.”

The deflated designer threw himself into one of the chairs lining the long, glass table. Although the offices of Downworld Fashion occupied several floors of the Pendragon Building, they refused to be sucked into the mahogany abyss. Ragnor and Rafael has hired a veritable army of interior designers to strip out the dark wood and, quite frankly, disturbing velvet curtains and pull this part of the prewar building kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Grey marble floors, monochromatic paint, chrome finishes and glass dominated the landscape. Gone were the days of solid walls. Now glass partitions “promoted an open concept work environment.” Magnus was almost certain Rafael just wanted to spy on his employees. 

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” a soft voice insisted from his left. He turned to see Tessa Gray sitting primly beside him in all her sweet, brown haired glory, hands folded over her perfectly curated design portfolio. Tessa was the head of Downworld’s line  _ Transformation _ which focused on business wear for the modern young professional. Magnus, however, was responsible for  _ Pandemonium _ , their club and evening wear line. Ragnor wanted to expand to include a casual line, but finding another head designer was proving difficult. This was also why this meeting to discuss the next year’s designs and branding had been pushed until just a few weeks before the year was over.

Magnus pulled his iPhone out of the breast pocket of his electric blue blazer and flicked to the text, because a conversation it decidedly wasn’t. He passed it over to Tessa. “See for yourself.”

The young woman was silent for a few moments, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows, before she asked, “Why are you checking if he’s alright?”

“He got smacked in the face by a door. I think it broke his nose.”

“Oh, well then I think it’s sweet of you to ask him.”

“But this begs another question,” Woosley stated, snatching up the phone. “Why did he allow himself to be hit in the face by a door, and will his face recover?”

“That’s two questions, sweetheart, and I can’t rightly answer either of them.”

“Mags—” 

“My distinguished employees,” Rafael called from the head of the table, “If we could please get this meeting underway. I know postponing this meeting has not been ideal for any of us, but if we can get through this quickly, we can all get working on our products.”

Magnus snatched the phone out of Woosley’s hands and slid it back into his pocket.

 

“At this rate we’ll have to work through Christmas to finish in time,” Tessa groaned, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “I’m supposed to go to London with Will and Jem for the holidays.”

“It’s the price of the industry, dearest,” Magnus replied as the doors opened. “At least you have someone, or rather two someones, to spend your Christmas with. All I’ve got is Merlin.”

Tessa shrugged as they stepped off. “Maybe it’ll work out with- oh what’s his name? Alec? I haven’t seen you this worked up about anyone in all the years I’ve known you.” 

Magnus went silent. He was worked up. He was nervous. Merlin could see it. Tessa could see it. The whole damn world could see that Alexander had him turned so far inside out he didn’t know how to act like himself anymore.

“I don’t know, Tess. I can’t figure him out.”

“He’s  _ shy _ , Mags, what’s there to figure out?”

The pair stopped in front of Magnus’ office, or his glass work prison as he so often called it. “It’s not just that. He… he hides himself until he thinks no one is looking. I’ve seen glimpses, before he notices I’m there. He’s beautiful, Tess, the way people say heroines are in young adult novels.”

She stared at him, scrutinizing for a minute. “Good god. You love him. You love him and he’s got no idea.”

Magnus jerked out of his reverie, green eyes wide. “Bullshit.”

“Believe what you want,” she said, waving him off as she sauntered away from him. “But I’m right. You’ll see.” 

He scoffed, turning into his office. They didn’t even have real doors anymore, and the glass didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling. He’d have to scream when he got back to the apartment. Merlin wouldn’t mind.

_ Fucking budget cuts. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'm not sure if anyone actually reads this, but I really enjoy writing it. I'm currently at college, so who knows when I'll be inspired to write again, but I'm glad to write when I can.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left comments or kudos, y'all mean the world.


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